


Take the pain and lock it up and throw away the key

by curlyAli



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 11:55:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curlyAli/pseuds/curlyAli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She'd promised to travel with him for a while, to stay with him until she was sure he'd be able to go on, but as she walked up the stairs and left the console room, she was beginning to regret it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take the pain and lock it up and throw away the key

**Author's Note:**

> Comfort fic, I suppose. Takes place immediately after The Angels Take Manhattan, so spoilers for that.

She'd promised to travel with him for a while, to stay with him until she was sure he'd be able to go on, but as she walked up the stairs and left the console room, she was beginning to regret it.

Don't let him see the damage, she'd told Amy, and she'd done her best - spent her whole life hiding the important things from him, the spoilers, and managed it as well. The only thing was - the deeper she buried the events of her life from him, the deeper she buried herself as well. She'd been married to the Doctor for decades, and he'd never seen her cry.

He never would either, if she could help it.

She'd been almost running down the TARDIS' corridors, but now she stopped still, a lump in her throat. She brought her hand up to touch the doorframe of Amy and Rory's old bedroom. Part of her didn't want to enter, as if they'd come in two minutes later, laughing and chatting, and tick her off for invading their privacy - she swallowed as she realised that would never happen again.

She went in and sat on the bed, feeling oddly numb and out-of-place. There were still possessions of theirs scattered all over, and though River picked up Amy's scarf and Rory's dressing-gown and clung to them, breathing in deeply, the tears still wouldn't come.

Maybe they couldn't. Maybe she wouldn't ever cry. She'd cried a lot in her childhood - her first childhood - but fear of punishment had soon stopped that. And that was two centuries ago now - two hundred and ten years, give or take, since little Melody Pond regenerated alone in an alleyway, and River hadn't really cried much since then. She'd wanted to, many times, just wanted the release that came with crying, but no. Amy Pond had bottled up her emotions, and it seemed like her daughter had to do the same.

And how could she cry - what right did she have to cry - when she herself had sent her mother into the past? Yes, Amy had been determined to go, but it was her fault. She'd left the Doctor bereft of his little Amelia. Amy had been looking at the Doctor, and his gaze had been on Amy. River had been left staring at the Angel - and she'd steeled herself and blinked. Just a blink, and then Amy was gone. It was her fault.

She didn't know how long she sat there, stiffly on the bed, staring into the middle distance and clutching her parents' possessions, but she was so absorbed she didn't hear him, even when he stopped at the door of the room.

'River!' His voice took on a completely different tone. 'River, it's been hours - are you all right?'

She blinked herself out of her trance and focused on him. 'Yes, yes, I'm fine.'

'It's okay, you know,' he whispered, settling himself beside her on the bed. 'They were together, they loved us. It's fine.'

And no - this was all wrong! This shouldn't happen - after all he'd been through, her Doctor shouldn't have to be comforting her. She turned away from him.

'River, please,' he continued, turning her to face him. 'just cry. Just this once, let the tears come. Please. It will help, just please.'

How could she tell him that she physically didn't think she could? 

He shifted closer to her and wrapped his arms around her - a touch that once would have disgusted her but now just made her feel safe. That was why she'd told Grayle to 'wait until my husband gets home', and that was why he told her 'honey, I'm home' at every possible opportunity. For travellers like them, long-lived travellers for whom everything was only fleeting, home was wherever they were. 

She stopped resisting and curled into him, and he held her tighter, his face in her hair.

'How long have we been married, for you?' she asked him quietly.

He hesitated. 'More than a hundred years, but I've known you for more than three centuries.'

'And you've never seen me cry.'

'No,' he said heavily, 'no, I haven't, and that's wrong. You're my wife. I'm supposed to love you and protect you and care for you so you don't have to hold yourself together all the time. I'm supposed to do that - I want to do that - and you won't let me, River. Just please, cry. Grieve. Mourn. Do something, River, please.'

'Would that I could, my love,' she replied, and his eyes widened. 'I really, truly, don't think I can cry.'

'Then come here,' he said, and kissed her.

When they broke apart, seeing their own misery reflected in each other's eyes, the dam burst, and finally, she cried. Huge great big gasping sobs which she couldn't stop, nor did she want to. The Doctor held her all the while, curled on Amelia and Rory's old bed, and River realised something.

With the Doctor, she didn't have to be strong all the time - she shouldn't have to. She would look after him, as she'd promised her mother, and he would look after her, as he'd always done, and slowly, painfully, a step at a time, they would help each other.

It's called marriage.


End file.
